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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115792">Thunders</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kru/pseuds/Kru'>Kru</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Criminal Minds Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crime Fighting, Crime Scenes, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Friends to Lovers, I'll add more tags as the story goes, M/M, Slow Burn, but happening on the continent, kind of, so it's like criminal minds meet the witcher xd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:34:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kru/pseuds/Kru</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt is one of the best profilers the WITCH organization ever produced, but recently he fell out of favor because he trusted a wrong person. Now he looks for a way to redemption.<br/>Jaskier leads a carefree life full of parties, booze and sex and no responsibilities but he dreams of one that is more meaningful and fulfilling. He looks for recognition.<br/>Accidently they meet on a case that is going to shake the whole Continent like a rumble of thunder.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Thunders</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, I had this in mind for quiet some time... What is going to happen if I throw the Continent into modern settings and I add a Criminal Minds seasoning to it? Plus, to make it more special, I am going to make Geralt fall in love with Jaskier all over again. Hmm. Let's try, shall we?<br/>__________</p><p>This incredible drawing was made by prefoundly talented <a href="https://linx1457.tumblr.com/">linx1457</a></p><p>Beta by remarkable <a href="https://locktea.tumblr.com/">locktea</a></p><p>- just have in mind that without them this story would never start :)</p><p>PS. Please be very patient with me on this one and I'll do my utmost to deliver!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>He looks at the silent clock on the wall above the door and checks the time again. Unsurprisingly the arrow hadn’t moved much from the last time he looked at it. He’s been waiting for twenty-two minutes. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. He arrived at the President's office two hours ago. In this time, he has been checked twice, scanned for weapons, interrogated by a secretary about his reasons for a visit, and his documents have been confirmed by two levels of security. All this to meet with the President’s Chief of Staff. Not with the President whose daughter has run away. Just with the Chief of Staff.</p><p>Geralt sighs for what feels like the hundredth time in twenty-two minutes and shakes his head with disbelief. The chair he sits on is uncomfortable. It’s also visibly smaller than the one behind a massive oak desk opposite to him. It is supposed to make the person who waits feel out of place and insignificant.</p><p>The room is filled with signs that the person who resides here is not only rich but also renowned. It’s full of pictures with well-known people, orders, medals and diplomas, notes of gratitude and praise. They take up the whole wall behind the desk, impossible to miss for anyone who visits. They also try to portray the owner of the office as someone who works hard for what he has, but the truth is that he just has a talent to be in the right place and around the right people. A climber, Geralt decides.</p><p>He tears his gaze away from the wall and starts to look at the rest of the room again. He does it more out of habit than interest. It isn’t like this person is involved with the case. His brain is trained to constantly analyze what he sees. His senses instantly follow patterns.</p><p>He spots the lack of family photos. Geralt knows that these types of men would usually flaunt their family around. It’s something almost necessary to make it this far. Still, this one doesn’t do it thus he doesn’t have one. A family, that is. He’s single then. Potentially divorced without kids. He does have a dog, however. There is one picture of a shepherd on the wall of fame and Geralt spots the same white hair on the dark surface of the desk. A desk that is messy and not very well organized. There are papers and folders clearly put not in the right order and pens spread around their empty holders. Their owner is not only chaotic but also doesn’t seem to trust his secretary, or anyone for that matter. The layer of dust and dog’s hair on some of the documents suggests that the room hasn’t been clean for a long time. Geralt knows that most of the cleaning personnel in the palace are female, which might mean on a deeper, unconscious level that the room’s owner has a serious problem with the opposite sex.</p><p>A lonely social climber with trust issues who lost his wife in the course of getting into this office, Geralt summarizes. It’s just the right person to meet after a twelve-hour ride from Kaer Morhen to Wyzima during the night and then two hours of unnecessary harassment.</p><p>“Fucking great,” he hums under his breath and sighs again.</p><p>He shouldn’t take this case. He knew that he was going to hate every single aspect of it. He hates politics. He hates all the manipulation, backstabbing and lies that come with it. He hates these heartless people who would do anything and say anything to claim just a little bit more power. He has never wanted to be a part of it, tried to fight with it, elude it and escape it, and yet he has always had to land in the middle of it. This happened in Blaviken. And he feels that this is going to be exactly the same.</p><p>The problem is that he already promised to Vesemir he’s going to take care of it. And for the last six months Vesemir fought for him. He fought for Geralt not to lose this job. He fought for his good name and the name of their unit. The same one that Geralt dragged to the ground with a single wrong decision. Now Vesemir has given him a way to redemption. He gave Geralt a simple case. One that should be resolved in a few days and one that might put his name and the name of his division on the papers’ first page, painting them as heroes of the Continent, and not as useless, bloodthirsty monsters who only prey on taxpayer’s money to make their point.</p><p>And the case is simple. A rich girl runs away from her daddy who happens to be the President of one of the biggest countries on the Continent. Maybe she had enough of the spotlight, the pressure, the constant visibility mixed with duties? Maybe she missed her mother? Maybe she fell in love and eloped? The fact that she did it on her own free will is the most important fact here. It means that Geralt just needs to know her a little bit better, profile her and based on that find out where she might go. It shouldn’t take more than three days. At least that’s what he thought when he took the case’s folder from Vesemir’s hands yesterday. But now? With how he sits here for almost thirty minutes? He starts to think that maybe the father doesn’t want to find his daughter after all. And just as he begins to make this conclusion, the door to the office opens.</p><p>“I’m terribly sorry for my delay. Those miners’ unions always want more and more…” says a short, skinny man.</p><p>He storms into the office and suddenly stops when he sees his visitor. Geralt observes how the man’s gaze slowly studies his body. His eyes stop on the most prominent features that all people who don't know him instantly pick up and judge him based on. His white hair. How long it is, barely tamed by an elastic band. His unusually pale, golden eyes. His worn-out, casual clothes. The leather jacket that probably saw another century with its previous owner. Or the trashy t-shirt and faded, black jeans. All that causes different reactions in different people. All that helps him to quickly assess if he’s right about them. And this time he’s hundred percent right.</p><p>“Ostrit Courtier, Chief of Staff,” the man says slowly. “And you are not my eleven o’clock.”</p><p>“I’m your eight thirty,” Geralt says and doesn’t rush to stand up but when he finally does, he towers over the other man as he introduces himself, “Geralt of Rivia, the witcher you sent for.”</p><p>The man carefully takes his outstretched hand, wincing when he meets a tight hold.</p><p>“I thought I made myself clear about the WITCH involvement in this situation?”</p><p>“Excuse me?</p><p>“I told your superiors we don’t need you,” Ostrit clarifies firmly this time as takes his spot behind the desk.</p><p>Sitting slowly, he gestures for Geralt to do the same. He must be used to people who follow his orders, and so to stir this notion the witcher remains standing.</p><p>“Superintendent Vesemir Deglan delegated me to this case yesterday,” Geralt starts, trying for a polite tone. “I came here not to intervene with the investigation, but to add my insight and let your men do the rest.”</p><p>“Your insight?” Ostrit snorts and gives a fake smile as he says, “No offence, but I read about the whole profiling thing, and I think it’s just some scientific mumbo jumbo that creates confusion among decent police officers. Especially when you come here dressed like…” The man holds his tone and gives Geralt one more scrutinizing look as he adds, “Like a gang member.”</p><p>“None taken,” the witcher responds simply and meets an angry gaze as he continues, “But the President must hold a contrasting opinion then.”</p><p>“How so? I don’t see him here,” Ostrit snarls and makes a show of looking around the office.</p><p>Geralt sighs one more time and explains with a tired voice, “He was the one who made the official request to my superiors.”</p><p>“Before I explained to him that your help is as irrelevant as it is unnecessary,” Ostrit presses further and, clearly uncomfortable with his position, he finally stands up, adding with a sudden smile suggesting he doesn’t mean his next words, “I’m sorry that you had to bother coming here for nothing, even though I’m sure you wasted taxpayers money to do that, but we won’t need your insight. My secretary will show you out.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt only hums in lieu of agreement.</p><p>He moves to leave, when suddenly he stops halfway across the room.</p><p>“She should also have taken the dog in the divorce,” he says.</p><p>“What?” Ostrit asks, confused.</p><p>“Your ex-wife,” Geralt clarifies. “When she divorced you.”</p><p>“How did yo- t-that was private information,” the man starts, his voice shaking with anger as he grinds through his teeth, “I made sure that information would not be included in any of my files.”</p><p>“You said it yourself,” the witcher points out as he turns to really leave this time and doesn’t turn back, “It’s just scientific mumbo jumbo.”</p><p>He overcomes the impulse to slam the door on his way out, but he doesn’t wait for the assistant to lead him outside. He hears her clicking heels and how she calls his name, but he stops only at the security gates to pick up his belongings.</p><p>He finally gets out of the air-conditioned building, straight into the heat of the day. Even though the President’s residence is surrounded by a vast park, the trees don’t give relief from the hotness that has kept Wyzima in its hold for the past three weeks. On the contrary, they keep the heavy humid air close to the ground, making it almost impossible to breathe. Their leaves hang low and sad and fading in the hitting sun, they beg for a little bit of rain that might still not come for months.</p><p>He walks slowly back to his motorbike, feeling the weather also weight on him. Getting to the city just a few hours ago, he didn’t have time to acclimatise. And even though the whole Continent is suffering from the heat wave, temperatures in Kaer Morhen aren’t that merciless.</p><p>When he reaches the bike, he checks again if his guns are safely placed in their holsters. Performing trained, well known motions, he reflects on how he’s spiteful over a case he didn’t want at the first place. How, regardless of the buffoon who just discarded him, he’s still thinking about the girl, who probably wants to, but might not know how, to come back home. Or worse, maybe she’s put herself in danger? Maybe she mixed with the wrong crowd? Maybe she’s being used for her body or influence, and she doesn’t know how she can get out of it?</p><p>Like always, he thinks about the victim. He doesn’t give a damn about the father who clearly thinks about his position first and his family later.</p><p>The victims. They’re the reason he joined the force and became a witcher. That’s the reason he’s spent years doing murderous, rigorous training and dedicated months to learning everything that a profiler of the W.I.T.C.H should know to find and neutralize the worst human scum that walks this world. This is also the reason why he wants to call all the higher ups he knows and ask for a favor that would put him in charge of the investigation and take the power of decision about it from Ostrit’s or even the President’s hands. But then he remembers that these favors are called only once, and there might be a less fortunate person who would need that support. So instead of dialing up the Union’s Ministry of Defense, he switches on his phone to call Vesemir and suddenly is welcomed by dozens of missed calls.</p><p>“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, pressing the number that called him the most.</p><p>The person on the other side picks up after the first ring, exclaiming through the speaker, “For the love of Melitele, Geralt, where the fuck have you been?! I hav–”</p><p>“Merigold,” he interrupts the woman. “What’s going on?”</p><p>“We have a case that might pick up your interest,” she says quickly, and he can hear she must be already in the middle of it as there are background noises interrupting her explanations, “It’s a nasty one and even I haven’t seen anything like it.”</p><p>“Triss, you know I can’t do much without higher ups' agreement,” Geralt says, reluctantly putting his leather jacket back on and zipping it up to his neck for the ride.</p><p>He puts in the key to start the engine when the woman says, “Then it’s a good thing that I already called Vesemir. He’s the one who told me you’re in town.”</p><p>“So, I don’t have a say in whether I agree to take on this case?”</p><p>“Don’t we all?” Triss asks and adds before he can react, “I will text you the address.”</p><p> </p><p>–––</p><p> </p><p>The hotel at the address Triss provided is on a main shopping street, tangled between expensive clothing boutiques and department stores. Day and night thousands of people walk by its historical building, causing a constant hum that intertwines with the sound of passing cars and rumble of city trams. It creates an unbearable cacophony that welcomes him when he parks on the opposite site from the hotel’s entrance. He stays on the bike and still wearing his helmet, he slowly looks around.</p><p>The hotel is situated in one of the oldest buildings in the city, a jewel of architecture that still remembers different owners of these lands. It’s also evidence of what happened to this country. How it had been built by a completely different culture that left a lot of beautiful places before it had been pushed back out of here and below the mountains. And as far as his memory serves him well, the building had served as a home to one of the wealthiest Elven families, but after the Cleansing it had been sold to a private owner, renovated and converted into a luxurious, five-star resort. Now the Metropolitan Hotel hosts galas and movie premieres. Its guests are well known faces from around the Continent. The club in its basement is harder to get than the WITCH base but it serves as the main source of all kinds of gossip. In other words, it is corrupt, rotten and soaked with money place. He’s sure that the scene he’s arriving at isn’t the first murder that has happened here. It’s just the first one that saw the light of day.</p><p>Now, the hotel is surrounded by police cars and technical trucks. The usual, elegant crowd is replaced by a bunch of gawkers and press that has already gotten wind of the sensation. They seem not to be bothered by the heat or humidity. It almost looks like the high temperature fuels and boil them. Hungry for blood and tragedy, they push on the tapes, waiting to see the body like crows wait for the carcass.</p><p>Geralt closes his eyes and for a moment he focuses on breathing. He slowly lets out a long exhale, trying to decide if he’s ready. Because a murder case isn’t an easy-peasy consultation about a run-away teenager. A murder case carries everything he has tried to avoid for the last six months. It isn’t just the hunt. That part he knows. That part he can do without a second of doubt. But the press, the constant exposure, the public critique. These parts he hates.</p><p>He wasn’t like that before. Before, he just tried to do his job. Before his life went to hell, he was focused on doing one thing only. He hunted. And that’s it. He didn’t think about the fact that he was a blunt instrument that politics and diplomats used to carry out their own agenda. He knew he was just a tool, but he didn’t mind. He really didn’t. Because he hoped that what he did had been making a change. And then he realised that it didn’t. He didn’t.</p><p>Why? Because Blaviken happened. A few seconds. One bad decision. Mere blink of an eye and nine people were dead. Two agents. Six members of the terrorist’s cell. And her. Renfri. Their leader. The one who managed to deceive him – the best profiler ever trained in Kaer Morhen. She pressed the button and killed herself, others, and something in him. She made him doubt what he’s doing. She wrecked his hope.</p><p>Of course, even before, he knew that the world is a shitty, decaying place. But now he also knows that he can’t change it. He can’t. The world will remain a shitty place and people like him only fight with ghosts. Like in the tale about the knight who thought he was fighting with a monster, but in reality, he fought just with his own nightmares. So yeah, because of Renfri he finally understood, and he fell off his high horse. Or even worse. He understood that he has never been a knight.</p><p>“It’s all for nothing,” Geralt whispers to himself.</p><p>He feels drops of sweat running down his spine below layers of clothes when he finally opens his eyes. He’s wet and heavy and dizzy from the heat, but he takes the helmet and the jacket off. Hanging them over the motorbike’s handlebar, he finally moves and takes the crossing to the other side of the street. Slowly the noise, the crowd and the fuss swallow him up and it feels like another bad decision.</p><p>He ducks under the tape in a spot where there are only a few bystanders, but they still shout after him, so he just flashes his badge at them. He doesn’t have to do that for the police officers as most of them know him if not from work then from all the press that covered Blaviken. As always, they aren’t particularly happy with his presence. Geralt can see this clearly written on their faces, but this is something he’s already used to and can deal with.</p><p>He knows they feel all sorts of contradicting emotions toward his organization and profession. There is a lot of fear that they aren’t needed, and he’s come to hijack their investigation. There is jealousy of his training and knowledge, of the fact that sometimes one look, one noise or mere scent points Geralt into the right direction and resolution. And sometimes there is some kind of strange respect for what he does, for how he lives – in a constant movement, driving from city to city and town to town, hunting for monsters.</p><p>All of these he can catch in their gazes even now when he approaches the technical van, seeing a well-known face.</p><p>“Geralt!” the man calls from afar, raising his arms barely visible in big, white overalls.</p><p>“At least someone’s happy to see me,” the witcher shakes his gloved hand. “How long has it been, Chireadan?”</p><p>“A year maybe?” the technician considers and pulls back the hood, breathing out heavily, “These suits are a nightmare today.”</p><p>“Can’t argue with that,” Geralt whispers to himself as he gives him a strained smile and adds louder, “Do you know where Triss is?”</p><p>Chireadan points at the building with his chin, struggling to take the gloves off his sweaty hands.</p><p>“Third floor, room 314,” he adds.</p><p>Geralt pats him on the shoulder and prepares to leave but the man stops him with a question, “Are you taking the case?”</p><p>“Maybe,” the witcher says cautiously, suddenly alarmed by Chireadan’s strange expression. “Why?”</p><p>The man just shrugs and looks at the torn blue gloves still in his hands. He turns the rubber a few times to form a ball while he looks for words. Geralt has known him for at least seven years. They have worked on more than a dozen cases with each other, respecting each other’s experience and accepting differences because they both are treated as outcasts of society. He is a witcher and Chireadan is an Elf. Chireadan is a relic of a different culture. Even more, he left behind his people to look for a better life among those who banished his fellow countryman. Geralt knows he struggles to fit in among foreign people and misses his family to whom he can’t go back to. That’s why the man cherishes any kind of connection, even if it is one with a person who doesn’t talk to him for months, so this reserve is just odd.</p><p>“What is it?” the witcher insists.</p><p>“I shouldn’t say anything,” Chireadan confesses and looks at him with an apology.</p><p>Giving Geralt a fresh pair of gloves, he adds, “You should see it yourself without prejudice, because I might distort your perception.”</p><p>Geralt nods slowly and doesn’t pressure further, but he looks at the hotel entrance with a strange new notion as he walks towards it slowly. It’s something similar to worry and that’s another surprise, because he suddenly understands that he’s afraid of what he might find here. He had never been afraid of any crime scene, but it seems that after Blaviken more things have changed than he suspected.</p><p>When he enters the building the rush of the foyer swallows him in again. The hotel is full of cops. They stand and sit around interrogating guests and checking everything that might be even remotely connected to the crime.</p><p>He immediately spots the manager. Among the frightened and concerned staff he is the only one who seems to be most outraged by the mess and the wrong attention it attracts.</p><p>There are more policemen guarding the elevators and stairs. They recognize him as he takes the latter. An elegant corridor covered in a soft, thick carpet leads him onto the third floor and then further. He passes heavy wooden doors that all look the same. In the subtle light, they remind him of guards that watch over the secrets kept in all these rooms. However, the doors to the room that Chireadan pointed out are opened. Bright light burst through them together with waves of voices. He instantly recognizes one of them, and now he knows what the technician was worried about. Yennefer, he thinks as he enters it and hears, “I know it’s almost forty degrees and you’d prefer to be somewhere else, preferably on one of Cintran’s white beaches, drinking Pina Coladas, but you need to move your asses faster because he can’t lie there forever,” the raven-haired woman demands.</p><p>She has her back to him, and yet he can clearly imagine her face and the pointed finger that she uses to emphasize the urgency and importance of her orders. What he doesn’t have to imagine is her slim waist and delicate frame highlighted by the sun that shines through her white overalls. She is a petite woman in a completely masculine world and yet he observes how the faces of the coroner’s technicians change to complete terror. No one is going to stand up to the fiercest General Prosecutor in the history of The Continental Union. Except he did. And he often does. Just like now.</p><p>“I’m going to help with that,” he says, disclosing himself.</p><p>She turns surprised but quickly collects herself and says, clearly annoyed, “What the hell are you doing here?”</p><p>The witcher opens his mouth to explain but she stops him with her hand.</p><p>“No, wait,” she interrupts. “Triss.”</p><p>“Yen, regardless of what brought me here, you clearly need me” he answers calmly.</p><p>The woman rolls her eyes and, making the technicians even more mortified, she assures, “We have everything under control.”</p><p>Geralt only snorts and adds, “Yeah, I can see that,” and allows himself further into the room.</p><p>He can see the whole space now. He suspected that before it was decorated like the rest of the hotel, elegant and clearly expensive but not much is left from its previous glory, because now it looks like the aftermath of a tornado. Furniture and all the settings are destroyed. Cushions, curtains and all soft furnishings that are left is ripped into shreds and their pieces are flung around everywhere. They cover all the broken glass and wood that also lie about wherever he can see.</p><p>He also spots the small yellow flags that mark evidence, and white twine that separates the room into sections. They are almost everywhere, creating a nest that’s almost impossible to evade. Technicians painfully slowly process each square as not to skip something that might be a clue.</p><p>“Fuck,” slips Geralt’s lips and Yennefer gives him a warning glance when he adds, “It must have been one hell of a party.”</p><p>“Oh, trust me, it was” she assures him flatly. “The last night shift’s receptionist stated that they rented this room to six men. It was around eleven o’clock.”</p><p>“I suppose six drunk and angry men could do something like that,” he tells her when she just motions him to walk after her.</p><p>The woman carefully walks around the room as not to disturb its state when she points out, “This is just the beginning.”</p><p>“I bet,” Geralt mutters to himself, following.</p><p>“According to a waitress who was responsible for bringing orders to this room the guests slowly scattered in the course of the evening and while they acted very loud nothing had been out of order, at least until three in the morning when the last order arrived,” Yennefer tells him when they enter to another part of the apartment.</p><p>As her words are still resonating inside the room’s walls, he stops at the entrance suddenly. He isn’t prepared for what is waiting there for him. That strange notion from before, the fear of something unclear and something unformed, suddenly bursts inside, him taking his breath away for a few seconds. He slowly realizes that he has never seen something so atrocious fin all the eighteen years that he has been working as a profiler.</p><p>And he’s seen a lot. He’s seen all sorts of death. He’s seen people stabbed multiple times who fully bled out and their dried bodies started to mummify. He’s seen swallowed and flatulent corpses of people who drowned, and the black, porous skeletons of those who burned in fires. There were those who died in accidents, smashed and cut to pieces, or those looking like a sieve when they happened to be caught in a gang’s crossfire. But what lies on the bed doesn’t even look like a human being anymore. What lies on the bed is just desolation.</p><p>Geralt needs to see more. That’s his job. That’s why they called him. And even if he hates it right now, he finally takes a heavy breath and forces himself to walk further into the room. Slowly as not to disturb anything he circles to the melody of glass breaking under his boots.</p><p>From this perspective he can see that this something has a shape and suddenly he knows what it reminds him of. It looks like somebody has thrown a rugged, worn out doll on the bed. It’s pitifully small compared with the size of bed and miserably emphasized by the blood that covers previously white sheets. Its stains are starting to dry out and darken and its sweet scent becomes more and more distinct in the hot, humid room, making the air almost impossible to breathe in, even for him.</p><p>As to ignore it he tries to focus on the details. He makes a few more steps to the bed and looks from above. Even then he can’t exactly tell how the body is situated on the torn covers and pillows. The head is turned to the side, but he sees only one side of a beaten, swallowed face. The rest is just an irregular pulp of ripped tissues and broken bones. It’s also unnaturally positioned as it suggests that the other part of the body should be on its back. Instead Geralt can spot an open chest and smashed ribs that pierced the skin. The same happened to all four limbs. Their joints are dislocated, all long bones have open fractures and tendons are utterly wrenched. And it looks like there is not a single part of this body that might be whole and untouched.</p><p>“Did Triss determine the time of death?” Geralt finally asks.</p><p>“She did,” says another familiar voice and when he turns his gaze into its direction, he can see a red-haired woman standing at the doorstep.</p><p>“Finally,” Yennefer snorts. “Do you care to share, Triss? I don’t have a whole day to waste on this.”</p><p>“There is no liver, so we are not going to have one hundred percent accuracy,” the woman starts coming closer as she continues, “But I am pretty certain that the young man died around six o’clock.”</p><p>“No liver?” Geralt repeats.</p><p>“Haven’t you spotted that the ribcage is opened?” Triss points out above the mentioned area and leads her finger in the air as she concludes, “Somebody had so much strength and also strangely enough knowledge that they forced opened ribs and tore out the liver while still leaving every other organ mostly in place.”</p><p>The witcher only hums in acknowledgment, looking back at the body.</p><p>“Have you seen anything like this before?” Yennefer asks.</p><p>“Taking souvenirs is pretty common among serial killers,” he admits, and crouches in front of the bed, just on the level where the victim's head is. Looking at it carefully, he adds, “And I’m sure it’s not the first person this unsub killed.”</p><p>“Do you think we might see more like this?” Triss asks with concern in her voice.</p><p>Geralt murmurs another “Hmm” and nods slightly as he looks at the smashed lips that uncover most of the teeth and gums.</p><p>“That is fucking great,” Yennefer mutters. “Just what I need before re-election, a serial killer.”</p><p>The witcher doesn’t pay attention to her anymore. He slowly examinates the face of the victim, searching inch after inch and then stands up again to lean over the body. He tries to see the head from all angles and still be careful not to move anything.</p><p>“The reason for death is strangulation,” he finally says.</p><p>“Yes,” Triss says with a well heard smile in her tone. “How did you catch that?”</p><p>The man moves up again and turns around to see her. He just shrugs nonchalantly like it’s not a big deal, but he gets this warm feeling of satisfaction because he knows he’s impressed her once again.</p><p>Triss Merigold is the best forensic medicine examiner the Continent has ever seen. And that’s not just his opinion, but also that of the people she has been working with. Even Lambert, despite holding a weird, personal grudge against her, wants to have her on his every case, because he knows her experience in the field and extensive knowledge mixed together with incredible intuition makes a witcher’s life so much easier.</p><p>“The gums give it away, they are bloodshot.” he adds standing next to her.</p><p>She nods and then starts to explain to Yennefer, “Somebody held the neck so tight that it pushed all the blood into the gums and to do that there had to be circulation of fluids in the body, and it is only after the victim died that the neck was snapped. I also suspect the rest was done postmortem.”</p><p>“Do you mean somebody first brutally strangled this person, and after that they beat him into a sack of bones?” Yennefer paraphrases.</p><p>“It isn’t the torture that does the trick for this unsub,” Geralt adds glancing at her. “But the death itself might be a release. And that ignites guilt and remorse, leading the unsub to aggression towards the subject of their previous pleasure.”</p><p>“Do you think the motive has sexual undertones?” Triss asks.</p><p>“Maybe,” the witcher whispers wincing as the word resonates in the room so he adds louder, “But it’s hard to say at this moment.”</p><p>“If you think that being so enigmatic adds to your charm you are sorely mistaken,” Yennefer points out.</p><p>“It worked on you,” Geralt reminds her flatly and says, “But I don’t want to draw conclusions too early,” and in his mind he adds, “Like in Blaviken.”</p><p>And although he doesn’t speak these words aloud, somehow from the look both of women give him, he feels that they also made the same conclusion. They also swiftly look at each other, clearly deciding on something. It’s obvious for him that this short, nonverbal debate is about him and that’s why he isn’t surprised when Yennefer finally speaks out:</p><p>“The case is yours if you want it.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t know if he wants it. He even doesn’t know if he’s able to work on it. But he knows what his unit needs. He knows what is good for the press and public opinion that he single-handedly tarnished with his blunt behavior. He also knows that he’d do anything to rebuild their name, so he just nods sharply with agreement.</p><p>“I need to speak to all the staff that had been on duty between 9 PM and 6 AM, and I need to also see any CCTV recordings from the building and within five blocks of the hotel. All from last night,” he starts to list all the usual actions and then stops for a moment to look at Yennefer and adds, “And I need a desk, but not in the precinct this time.”</p><p>“Somewhere in my offices then,” the woman says, “And I will immediately provide you with the rest.”</p><p>He nods and then says quickly, “One more thing, I need you to promise me that there isn’t going to be any kind of media coverage of this case.”</p><p>“You do realize the press will torture me?” Yennefer tries to bargain, but she must see something in his gaze that makes her yield any further argument because she only tells him, “Fine, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>–––</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier isn’t a morning person. He isn’t proud of it, but then again, it’s just one flaw staining his otherwise flawless personality, so he isn’t going to take it up with the gods. Melitele had to give him something to separate him from them. And it isn’t even a big imperfection. He could have had worse. He might have gotten protruding ears for example. Or a small penis. Or even worse, he might have ended up not getting his imagination and talent for words. And who would he be without that? An accountant?</p><p>“That is a frightening thought” he mumbles to himself as he slowly takes the steps to his small office, trying not to spill any coffee on the way.</p><p>He thinks about all these things because today he feels simply horrible. On a normal day he is late to work. He comes around noon, shamelessly capitalizing on the fact that no one needs him anyway, and absolutely no one asks for him most of the time. But today, when he is not only sleep deprived but also completely hungover, someone did ask for him. They called him when he was still in bed at his apartment downtown, and they said that his boss has requested four lines of official statement about the President’s daughter's disappearance for 2 o’clock.</p><p>This means he had approximately fifteen minutes to pull himself together to an acceptable state, drive through the jammed city center and then produce a decent piece on a matter he didn’t know existed like a half an hour ago. Well, he did know it existed, because he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t, but he didn’t realize it suddenly became official news. Maybe this happened when he was at the ball last night, drinking and having too much fun with that bartender while he should be looking for a new, exciting gossip or better - a serious scoop that would finally put his blog on everyone’s tongues. Instead he got only three hours of sleep, a hangover and a hickey the size of Redania. That one he doesn’t regret, but he still would give that over for some juicy information. This is what his life has become.</p><p>“A tragedy,” he whispers, putting the paper cup down on the many folders and papers that litter his desks.</p><p>He opens his laptop and reads the message from his boss that he got along with the phone call. Apparently, she decided to finally officially admit that the President’s daughter is out on a whim and that the general prosecutor’s office together with the President’s representatives, of course, are doing everything in their power to bring the poor child safely back home. Jaskier is sure that it’s a smoke screen for something else and knowing about the runaway girl for quite some time, he also understands that the latter case might be far more interesting. They’re trying to cover it with the social scandal of the year after all.</p><p>For that it’s only a mere scandal and nothing serious he’s also pretty sure. Otherwise they would put every cop and every federal agent and every witcher on this case, but instead it has been kept away from the public’s eye for weeks. Besides, he met the girl a few times. On each occasion it was only a brief moment, nevertheless it was enough for him to know that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.</p><p>So, what is the other case that needed covering then? He asks himself as he takes one more sip of his coffee and starts to type. The note isn’t long, but it has to be balanced. Any wrongly used word or tense might strain an already fragile relationship between the prosecutor’s office and the one on the President’s side, so he uses all his talent and wits to compose a small masterpiece. As always words come easily to him. They just flow through his body and onto the keyboard. And it doesn’t feel at all like he’s typing a formal press statement but rather poetry with all its sophisticated and veiled metaphors that, for an interested and intelligent reader, can imply far more than what it has been written.</p><p>This is his gift. One that for sure he isn’t going to complain about to Melitele or any other god. Another case is that he doesn’t really believe in them, but if he were to believe that such a power has ever existed, he would thank them for this blessing. And for the fact that he is irresistible to any man walking on this planet.</p><p>He also likes this job. It allows him to live a very good, balanced life. There is not too much to do and when he does have things to work on, he can do what he loves the most – he can write. His boss might not be ideal. She is a workaholic and a maniac if it comes to law. Probably that’s why she got elected to this position at such a young age and the fact that she is a woman almost didn’t matter. Almost is an operative word here. Still, he can find advantages to her. He respects her and very quietly admires her for one. And working for her opens many doors for him to reach others. Doors that even his father's surname can’t force. Like the morgue or police station database. So yes, he likes his job. Even when it’s horribly boring. And when it is boring to the point of dying, he has his blog where he describes the most frightening, disturbing and mysterious crimes of the Continent in an honest and transparent manner. Well, at least he would have described them if he had found any. Then he would finally experience his first viral moment. At least that’s the plan, he repeats in his mind for the hundredth time in the past few months when he presses a print button and is about to take the copy to his boss for authorization, when he hears her voice in the corridor.</p><p>“I have a perfect place for you,” she says when she comes into his office.</p><p>Jaskier jumps from his spot, awkwardly standing up when another person appears in the doorway.</p><p>“Jaskier, what on earth are you wearing?” he hears her saying, “I need to come down here more often if you all think this is appropriate attire for a General Prosecutor Office’s employee.”</p><p>“It's a casual Friday,” he mumbles looking between the woman and her companion still bewildered.</p><p>“Jaskier,” she says firmly, “It’s Monday.”</p><p>“Oh,” he huffs and adds with one of his brilliant smiles, “I must have mixed up the days.”</p><p>The stranger’s lips twitch in a very subtle smirk that somehow makes his face look even more handsome and scary at the same time, but Jaskier doesn’t have much time to savor it because when he glances back at his boss she looks completely pissed off.</p><p>“Don’t mix them again,” she slowly says each words and turns to the man “This is Jaskier Lettenhove, my PR specialist,” she stops to quickly look at Jaskier and adds with a sly small, “When he isn’t hungover he’s responsible for all press and social media matters, so you might want to use him and his contacts when it comes to the case.”</p><p>“Oh yes, use me all you want,” Jaskier says before he thinks as he extends his hand and adds even faster, “And I know who you are. You are Geralt of Rivia. The witcher.”</p><p>The man nods and scrutinizes him as he returns the handshake hesitantly. His grip is strong. His hands are somehow rough but very warm. That’s unexpected. And pleasant, Jaskier thinks before the woman’s voice cuts in again.</p><p>“He might not look like it, especially if dressed in a Hawaiian shirt but Jaskier really knows his ways with the press,” she adds and looking at Jaskier she indicates clearly, “And I will make sure he has some work to do so he won’t interrupt you much.”</p><p>“Thanks Yen,” the witcher murmurs and throws his bag at the neighboring desk. “I won’t take more of your time.”</p><p>Yennefer nods sharply and turning on her insanely high heel she aims for the door. Jaskier smiles at the man again and tries to act casual while internally he performs a version of his winning dance. This must be his lucky day. He has not only met a real witcher but <em>the</em> witcher. And this witcher will be working on some mysterious case while sitting in Jaskier’s office. Brilliant, the man shouts in his head and smiles even more when he tries to graciously take a place behind his desk.</p><p>He’s still observing the witcher carefully. Geralt, he corrects himself, and tries to take a deep breath. He has to focus, and he mustn’t embarrass himself. That’s the priority here. And he needs to get an approval from Yennefer on the not–</p><p>Jaskier suddenly remembers about the note. He jumps from his place clearly surprising Geralt again, so he just hums some vague apologies and runs after the woman. He catches her already at her floor. She briefly looks over the statement with a pleased smile and tells him to put it in all known media outlets in Temeria and maybe a few that cover the Union matters. In other words, he suddenly has shit-ton of work to do, just exactly like Yennefer promised.</p><p>When he returns to his office Geralt is sadly gone, so he can’t jump on him with all the many questions that have already appeared in his mind on his short walk back. But the man’s bag is still on the desk so Jaskier takes another deep calming breath like his meditation guru advises and tries to sit down and think of work.</p><p>Except he can’t. He’s still too excited. The feeling runs through his veins like it’s replaced his blood and it makes him all overstimulated with ideas and thought. He hasn’t felt like this since he told his father that he won’t be continuing on the family tradition, and instead he majored in investigative journalism. Because this guy, this witcher, must be a goldmine of history and cases that he can tell him about, or at least give him some hints as to where to look and this is just amazing.</p><p>“This is everything,” Jaskier says very quietly.</p><p>“What is?” a rough voice asks from the doorway.</p><p>Jaskier looks up from his monitor and chokes on the air. Geralt changed. Now he wears a suit that strangely doesn’t make him look less intimidating, even if he does look a tiny bit more polished. He is equally handsome though. Or maybe even more? At least for Jaskier. Because Jaskier has a very unhealthy suit kink and what he sees triggers in him every possible way.</p><p>The suit that Geralt wears is light grey and his shirt is white and tailored so it hugs the witcher in all the right places and smooths over all the perfectly shaped and visible muscles. It must be made to order because the trousers stretch over man’s thighs like they are a second skin, but he still moves comfortably and looks elegant. And it all makes Jaskier wonder what might be hidden under all those unnecessary layers.</p><p>“So, what is everything?” Geralt repeats his question, stirring Jaskier away from his daydream.</p><p>“What?” he asks and looks around, trying to come up with something so he takes the first paper that’s under his hand and adds, “It’s just this list of media outlets.”</p><p>“Hmm,” the witcher hums a response and starts to slowly unpack.</p><p>He takes the laptop out and then connects it to all necessary slots. He also put back the clothes that he had on before, together with a motorbike helmet. Jaskier is watching all this with silent fascination. He had never met a witcher in person but of course he heard a lot about them.</p><p>He knows that they are working for an organization called Worldwide Investigations, Tracking and Combat Handling, in short WITCH, that answers to the Continental Union but on some matters have also prerogative. This prerogative allocates them even with Union’s parliament seats so they can have a say in the law making.</p><p>He also knows that to become a witcher you have to start your training from a very young age. So young that the organization has its own boarding school at their base in Kaer Morhen. It accepts only boys from the age of seven that pass all the intellectual and physical tests and later survive through years of a severe regime of training in knowledge and combat. This means that whoever passes the final trial at the age of eighteen becomes a perfect crime hunter that travels from town to town throughout the continent to help local or capitol police forces to solve the most difficult cases.</p><p>But apart from these facts there is a lot of gossip circulating around the Continent. Jaskier doesn’t like to believe them because they are a creation of anti-WITCH propaganda, but he does consider some of them to have a seed of truth. Like the one that all witchers are a lonely and brooding lot who never strive for a family or any kind of closer human connection because they are so dedicated to their work. Because Jaskier has never heard of a married witcher and he has never heard of someone who has one of them as a father. What he has heard is that they are incredible in bed and watching Geralt he decides he can fully believe in that piece of chatter.</p><p>He takes another look at the man and then naturally his eyes fall on the screen of Geralt’s laptop. For a short moment he doesn’t know what he’s seeing but then suddenly he comprehends the clear image of a man.</p><p>“Hey, I know him,” he says aloud before he can stop himself.</p><p>Geralt looks at him swiftly and asks low, “What did you say?”</p><p>“I know the man from this recording,” Jaskier repeats trying to sound sure of his words and adds, “He was at the ball yesterday because he does something for the President’s office, and I think he worked on something else with my father.”</p><p>The witcher looks at him carefully. His golden eyes are piercing though Jaskier like he can literally see or sniff out if he’s telling him the truth.</p><p>“Of course,” he says finally and when he continues, he winces as if the words he pronounces taste bad. “You’re Julian Lettenhove, the youngest son of Robert Lettenhove who happens to be one of the closest advisors to President Visimir.”</p><p>“The one and only.” Jaskier forces a tight smile and tells him, “Although I cut almost all my ties to my dearest family.”</p><p>“Almost,” Geralt snorts.</p><p>“Well, I do use the fact that my poor father still thinks he can pull me into politics and accept all the invitations to balls, parties and any possible events that can serve to expand on my contact network and have free booze,” he explains nonchalantly and suddenly smiles, “And it seems it can help you with your investigation.”</p><p>“Help me,” the witcher snorts again. “I’m going to have all their names and resumes in seconds after I put an APB on them.”</p><p>“Yes, that’s very true,” Jaskier concludes but adds with an even broader smile, “But I can make them talk without them knowing you’re from the WITCH. I guess they would talk so much more freely if they weren’t aware of that small fact. So, what do you say? Do you want my help after all?”</p>
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